The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) (29 page)

Some heavy ordnance exploded in the sea, just to the port side of the patrol boat, and it heaved heavily to starboard. Racing directly toward
Lucky Dog.

Eleven. Ten. Nine.

Stone cocked his right arm.
It’s too close! I’m not …

The limpet mine flashed through the air. Stone switched the second mine from his left to his right hand as the first one clanged hard against the hull of the patrol boat.

Five.

He lifted the second mine just as the bow of the patrol boat’s hull sliced alongside
Lucky Dog.
What remained of the inflatable bounded away from the charging ship, spinning in circles accelerated by the boat’s wake. Stone steadied himself and tried to focus on the ship as it flashed in and out of his frame of vision. It was on the second circuit that Stone noticed the Iranian gunner staring down into the careening inflatable.

One.

Like a quarterback under a blitz, Stone slung the limpet side-armed in the general direction of the patrol boat.

Zero.

The first explosion coincided with the gunner triggering his machine gun in
Lucky Dog
’s direction. The second explosion swallowed up the sound of the first, but not the sight of the bullets ripping across the surface of the sea … until Stone was blinded by the light … and the Persian Gulf finally claimed the rest of
Lucky Dog.

11:26 a.m., Jerusalem

Interim Prime Minister Meir Kandel sat across the table in Central Command’s conference room with the smug nonchalance of a man in control of power. It was not an attitude that General Moishe Orhlon was accustomed to seeing in his prime minister, and one he disliked even more coming from Kandel—a right-wing zealot determined for all-out war with the Arabs. Israeli citizens were dying, his troops were engaged in a foolhardy, impulsive invasion of southern Lebanon, and Israeli warplanes were massing for a strike against Iran. And Kandel sat here as if he were playing some parlor game, unconscious of the real cost of his decisions.

Orhlon, Israel’s defense minister, had a massive, interactive smart screen behind his chair, with maps, grainy video, and troop movements displayed across its face. But it was Kandel’s face that Orhlon was forced to study. The prime minister demanded his attention.

“This is a great day, General. History will mark this day as the beginning of Israel’s ultimate victory for the security of our people.” Kandel reclined in his chair, a thick cigar between his right thumb and forefinger. “The fools on the left are screaming, begging for restraint. Can you imagine? Restraint. And you, Moishe, you will be famous.”

Two weeks from his last cigarette, Orhlon’s stomach turned, and his head spun from the thick cigar smoke. “Famous, I don’t care. What I do care about is that our tanks and armor are exposed if they are attacked without support. Hamas fighters are pouring into the streets of Gaza, attacking Israeli troops, and Iran is threatening to launch a dozen long-range missiles that will destroy large sections of Tel Aviv. Mr. Prime Minister, this action could be a disaster. We need more time; we need better planning before we—”

The phone to Orhlon’s left began to buzz, one of its buttons lighting up. The general reached for the phone, knowing the call came neither from the Operations Complex on the lower level nor from his adjutant. Not many others had this number.

“Yes?” Orhlon recognized the voice at once, but for a moment failed to realize its significance. He looked over at Prime Minister Kandel, whose eyes were closed, the smile still painted on his face. “It’s for you. It’s the chief justice.”

Passing the phone to Kandel, the gears in Orhlon’s mind were spinning. If he was correct about the meaning of this call, Orhlon’s next decision would be which of his commanders to call first.

“Yes?” Kandel sat up in his chair.

“When?” The smile came off his face.

The cigar whizzed past Orhlon’s ear. “They can’t do that.”

Orhlon watched as Kandel’s face tightened, his eyes narrowed like a prizefighter about to launch a counterattack. “What War Powers Act?” Kandel was on his feet, one hand clutching the telephone, the other hand leaning on the table for support. “This is legal?”

Slowly, Kandel’s eyes came off the floor and settled on Orhlon. Hate boiled in those eyes. “Yes.”

Kandel handed the telephone back to Orhlon. “It’s really for you.” He turned and, without another word, stalked out of the Command Center.

Orhlon put the phone to his ear. “Yes?”

“General, this is Supreme Court Chief Justice Abraham. You recognize my voice?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Good. The cabinet, joined by the court, recalled the Knesset into an emergency session under the War Powers Act. A vote of no-confidence was called. Labor, Yesh Atid, Palestinians, even Likud and the Jewish Home from the right, all voted to disband Kandel’s government. The anger at his arrogance—the vote was overwhelming.”

Perhaps there is time.

“Who is the new interim prime minister?”

“Who? They all wanted the same man,” said Chief Justice Abraham. “They want you, Moishe.”

This he didn’t expect.

“They want you to end this madness. We’re not ready for a ground war. It’s you, Moishe. They all trust you. And Likud has formed a National Unity Coalition to give you their support—three-fourths of the Knesset signed up.”

Orhlon was shaking his big, shaggy head. “But I’m not a politician.”

“No, Moishe—and that’s a blessing. You are a man of character and integrity who is trusted on both sides of the Knesset. Lead us, Moishe, just like you lead your men. Go, do it now. Israel needs a man like you.”

He held the phone in his hand for a long moment after the chief justice hung up. Unexpectedly, Orhlon now found himself commander of a nation, and not only of its military. He searched his mind for the right plan. Orhlon pushed the 0 button. He was talking before the voice on the other end could speak.

“Open up a secure line to the White House. I want to speak with President Whitestone.”

9:36 a.m., London

Sometimes, paper felt more reassuring, more permanent and reliable. The computers were fast and the screens a technological marvel. But sometimes, you just needed to see it in print.

Nigel Hunter held five pieces of paper in his hands. He would read one, move it from the front of the pack to the back, and read the next. He had completed this ritual three times and begun a fourth when the chairman spoke.

“This is the end of the world.”

Hunter tore his eyes from the ensnaring pages and transferred his attention to Lord Albert Alderson, chairman of HSBC Europe and board chair of the European Central Bank, the most polished gentleman Hunter had ever known. Not only did Lord Alderson dress as if he set the standards for
GQ,
but he also physically looked the part of a gracefully maturing man of means—tall, athletic, chiseled good looks, graying at the temples, always a smile, and never a hair, a button, or an emotion out of place.

Now Nigel Hunter was really scared. Disheveled, in his wrinkled corduroy pants, Lord Alderson looked like a man hijacked from his breakfast. The chairman’s face was as ashen as the gray in his hair. And fear found a home in eyes that previously had never once doubted themselves.

“Sir, what can we do?” he asked.

Lord Alderson took the pages in his hands and crumpled them up into a large ball, pressed them together, and flipped them, underhanded, into a dustbin alongside his desk. “Nothing. There is nothing we can do. Greece will declare bankruptcy by this afternoon. Spain and Italy won’t be far behind. Those countries can’t print their own euros. The debt call is over a half-billion euro so far, it continues to rise, and there is not enough liquid cash in the entire EU to satisfy these debts. Not immediately, as is required. So the dominoes will begin to fall—Italy, Portugal—even France and Belgium are at risk. Once sovereign nations begin to collapse, there may be no end to it.”

“But the EU won’t allow a continent to fall into bankruptcy, will it?”

The touch screen on the chairman’s desk lit up with an incoming call. His eyes were on the photo of his family strategically located on a corner of his desk, the sunlit windows behind it to avoid glare. “There is no EU. Not after today.” He touched the screen, turning on the speaker. “Yes?”

“Lord Alderson, it’s the Saudis.”

Hunter recognized the voice on the other end of the conversation as that of the bank’s president. And it sounded panicked. “Abbudin must be responsible. The National Bank of Saudi Arabia somehow gained control of billions in euro debt. They’re calling it all. I’ve had two bank presidents text me already to say their banks were taken over by the Saudis this morning.”

Lord Alderson picked up the pen lying on top of his desk and absently began tapping on the back of his hand. Then he spoke into the touch screen.

“Transfer as much as you possibly can into our American accounts. But move quickly. We have less than an hour. See if you can salvage one to two hundred million.”

Alderson’s voice was strong, but his finger quavered as he tapped the surface of the touch screen to end the call. Nigel Hunter’s hero stared at the top of his desk for a long, silent moment.

“We are being conquered … invaded,” he whispered. “The Arabs will own Europe by the end of the week.” He tapped the touch screen once more. “Get me the prime minister.”

4:49 a.m., Washington, DC

Momentarily back in the Oval Office to complete some critical phone calls, Whitestone was surprised with how remarkably calm he felt. He stood leaning against the edge of the
Resolute
desk, while Bill Cartwright sat closer to the speaker phone on one of the sofas.

“General, I join in celebrating this change in government, particularly with you at the helm,” said the president. “And I’m hopeful the Arab states will welcome your earnest and sincere promise to withdraw your troops from Lebanon. You are an implacable foe, Moishe, but a man everyone in the region trusts.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. But Hezbollah must stop the rocket attacks—today. Our nation and our leaders did not support what one misguided man tried to accomplish. And I’m ready to order our troops back across the border, but not until the rockets stop.”

Whitestone looked across the short distance to Cartwright, his eyes asking an unspoken question. Cartwright nodded in assent.

“There is, though, Mr. Prime Minister, the residual international outrage regarding the attack on the Iranian Central Bank. Radiation is still drifting down on parts of Tehran. And now we’re in a shooting war with Iran in the Strait of Hormuz. None of that is going to disappear with the Knesset’s moves, no matter how welcome.”

The silence stretched for more heartbeats than Whitestone was comfortable with. He opened his mouth to make another argument—

“Mr. President, you and I have known each other a long time,” said Orhlon, who first connected with Whitestone more than a decade earlier when the general addressed the megachurch Trinity Baptist near Dallas on the state of Israel’s security and his country’s gratitude to evangelical Christians who offered Israel their unwavering support. Whitestone was a deacon at Trinity who guided Orhlon during his visit and offered the hospitality of his Texas home. “So, Jon, this is not the time for veiled truths. You and I both know how deeply you and your military were involved in the attacks on Iran. I need your support, Jon, and Israel needs your support—publically.”

Whitestone pushed himself off the desk, crossed the room, and sat on the sofa opposite Cartwright. “You have my promise, Moishe. We’ll stand by you. And the world will know it.”

“Thank you, Jon. Now I’ve got to try to stop a war.”

Cartwright, Whitestone’s newly appointed secretary of state, leaned back into the softness of the sofa. “Well, that’s a surprising change. Welcome … but unexpected. What about Abbudin?”

Whitestone steepled his hands together and pushed his fingertips against each other. “I think our conversation with the king just took on a different flavor. We can get tougher, but we need Abbudin to exert some influence. If we’re going toe-to-toe with the Iranian military, then we need the Al-Uedid air base in Qatar reopened. And we need it now.”

“I cannot answer for the sheikh.” Abbudin’s voice, coming from the speakerphone, sounded as slippery as oil. “His nation is in turmoil, as are so many others as a result of the misnamed Arab Spring. This spring has been nothing but disaster for the Arab people and our countries. All of us must be very careful.”

Whitestone pushed the mute button.

“Something’s wrong here,” he whispered, even though the microphone on this end was turned off. “This isn’t the same guy we’ve dealt with before.”

Whitestone pushed the button again.

“Your Excellency, the United States, Saudi Arabia, and Qatar have been steadfast allies for decades, helping to bring security and stability to all of our nations. Allies stand together, even when faced with opposition.”

“Yes … well … times change,” Abbudin purred.